Who we become

A few nights ago I dreamed of love. We were singing together and this man had a soul touching voice. It was a sure love, a new love and so comfortable. I didn’t want to leave that dream. The real world is a lonely place. I can’t seem to find my way here. And when I am driving through the city, looking at the thousands of people I don’t know, realizing in cities and towns across the world there are hundreds of millions of people- so many of us, how is it possible for any one of us to be so alone?

It is often that my perspective zooms out to such a scale that I see only humans, and we are horrible to each other. It is as if we are not of the same species. We do not see how we are related. We do not care for each other or tend to our sick or frail. We are a sorry lot, us humans, lost in searching and fighting for things that are inconsequential. We can’t even see it.

Yesterday I passed another person on the street- I am not sure who he was- a forgotten? A throwaway? I can’t even be certain of the situation. As I drove past I saw a man on a motorcycle looking down at him and shaking his head and then driving away. I don’t know if the motorcycle had hit him, or narrowly missed or just stopped to see if help could be offered. It wasn’t clear in those few quick seconds. 

I saw a woman walking by. She looked, kept walking and looked back again. She had a baby on her back and a large bowl of bananas on her head. She was carrying a small table or crate in her hand. None of us seemed to know what to do. Myself- I drove by. I looked, I wondered, I panicked in a way. Yes, it was panic because I did not stop. A steady hand would have stopped and offered help. The street was oddly empty. Usually there are a bunch of sellers on this stretch of road. It is one of the very few places where the street sellers persist. But in this moment, I drove to the corner, made the turn and there was nothing. No one.

I hate that I do this. Drive by. The man had been lying on his stomach, his head oddly facing the ground. He appeared to be having a seizure, his body convulsing in some way. His legs were jerking and his torso rose off the ground. Everything about the movements were unnatural and wrong. He was alone. I did not stop. What would I have done?

My most recent medical training was in CPR- what to do if someone is not breathing- not how to handle convulsions. I am still never really clear on what to do with trauma. It’s not my strong point. I am very, very squeamish and afraid to see blood or bone and organs exposed. I think I am most afraid of being out of control. I cannot fix those things.

In Africa, the situation becomes even more complex because there is no 911. And even if they do purport to have an emergency number (112 or something similar) it will take a long time for anyone to show up. Further complications include being foreign, being white and not knowing exactly what happened. These all sound like excuses, and they are. They are the reasons that prevent me from stopping. Being foreign means that I have a greater chance of somehow becoming implicated or blamed for the incident. Being white suggests I will pay for everything and not knowing exactly what happened means I can’t offer a defense.

They are all good and valid excuses, but none of them make me feel better about myself. It’s not the person I want to be- the person that sees a need and just keeps driving.  I am coming to realize that medical issues are not my area of strength. I am really not equipped to offer much in the case of broken and bleeding bodies. It’s hard to accept this. Sometimes I feel like the only worthwhile thing is to be a medical healer. We do it to each other, this breaking of bodies. War and fighting and anger. We ruin lives, we starve each other, we create situations of horror that don't have to exist. In these times, the immediate need is physical. Nothing else matters when you're a life on the edge. 

But there are other types of healing. And some of these other areas are where I feel more capable. As a healer, however, it is shocking to drive by someone in need and feel unable to assist. It is an overwhelming sense of dread and powerlessness that cuts down to the core and plants a little seed. It stays there long into the night and the day and resurfaces every so often to remind you of who you were in that moment. And who you really are. Not a healer after all, but just someone who drove by.

I passed the area again later in the day and he was gone. Someone had stepped in. Either to offer help or to clear the body. I can feel positive about that- not like the child in the road, whose body remained despite a busy street and plenty of onlookers.

It is situations like these that make me wonder if maybe I am not cut out for African living anymore. Maybe I am full up. When you are constantly facing hardships and battling inequality- facing simple problems that suddenly become insurmountable, it’s not easy to like who you become.

A greeting between neighbors

The house across the street from us has a clay water pot out front. It is a common sight in Mali, this clay water pot. They can be found in front of mosques, houses and little boutiques. The pot has a cover and usually sitting on top is a plastic cup or two.

Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.

Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.

There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.)  I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.

I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world.  We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.

It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.

One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They  hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.

We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.

My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.

Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.

We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.

We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.

That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.

The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.

Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.

It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.

I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance.  I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.

I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.

Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.

I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.

We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.

But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.

Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?

For the exiled

The news is abound with stories of elections. I have noticed when it comes to Africa, there always seems to be an election story- elections about to happen, currently happening, refusing to happen. Elections contested, disputed, heroically accepted. Elections are about more than the leading face of the country. They're about power, democratic stability and the will of the people. And Western will, of course. For all the US blubbering about potential Russian influence in the elections, it would seem the general public is unaware of how much meddling America does in foreign politics, especially African ones. 

Bamako seems to be doing just fine after her first round (though perhaps the same cannot be said for regions outside the capital.) In the city, the rain appears to be a greater inconvenience than election unrest. I tried to get a shot of the motorcycle rain-rider style but figured it was a better idea to keep my eyes on the road. Motorcyclists have a million variations of rain gear- from actual jackets and hoods cinched tight under the chin to garbage bags with convenient holes, but by far the most interesting observation is the riding posture used to navigate puddles. While I wasn't able to snap a photo of the knees-pulled-in-feet-resting-on-the-gas-tank maneuver I had been admiring, Kylie did capture this expressive series of shots that starts out with reluctant surprise and ends with a carefree glance back at the next brave travelers.

Are we doing this?

Yeah, I think we're doing this.

Your turn, cowboys!

When it comes to African elections, there rarely seems to be a carefree look - back or ahead. DRC's election woes have been dragging out for nearly 2 years and there is not a clear end in sight. The drama continues to deepen as players such as Jean-Pierre Bemba and Moise Katumbi enter the fray. Katumbi is still trying to get in to DRC to make his candidature official, while JPB's history hardly seems presidential.

Though the drama plays out in the news with something of a tabloid feel (an incredible comeback from convictions of war crimes and crimes against humanity on the one hand and, on the other, a luminary politician-businessman-soccer club owner who was previous chums with the president) there is surely a behind the scenes.

While it is impossible to know how much, if any, of the feud was orchestrated (did Kabila and Katumbi drum up their row in order to force him into exile only so he can return as champion for the people? Or has he been seduced by high powered friends? Oh, the soap opera-ness of it all...) the current efforts to keep Katumbi out- and all the other exiles out- must be taking an emotional toll.

Exile- a forced or voluntary absence from one's home, typically for political or punitive reasons. Banishment. Showing up at home only to find the door locked. Or even worse, showing up at home only to find big men with guns barring the way- or little men with guns slinking around in the darkness waiting for a vulnerable moment. Despite the uncertainty surrounding the sincerity of Katumbi's effort's to enter the country, there remain plenty of other activists who've been left homeless.

There can be no comparable feeling to being shunned by your own country, your birthplace. The surprise and pain of being labeled an enemy of the state - your own state which you love and have fought for nearly since birth- and the shock of suddenly finding yourself alone and without- it takes a minute to truly comprehend how deep that cuts into the soul. The very fabric of one's being and the basis for an entire identity suddenly, brutally taken away, for an indeterminable amount of time.

The future does not look the same as it once did. Not for those individuals.  Having faith and staying strong depends in large part on one's ability to maintain a close community of support- most often at a distance. If anything, Bemba's 11 year absence and quick return shows us how unexpectedly even the most dire circumstances can shift. There is hope.

There is hope and possibility and entire communities rooting for you. We support you. We stand behind you. We remember you and we continue to seek justice.

A secret cave

Big trucks and watermelons. Motorcycles and red dust. Flies. These are the things that I imagine when I think of Bamako. Living in the Zone Industrielle means we are inundated with big trucks. As a landlocked country, Mali is dependent on it's trucking industry to trade goods with its neighbors and get its exports to sea.

The trucks are not allowed to drive on the roads at certain hours, though I haven't yet determined what those hours hour. During early morning commutes to school they are parked along the roadside, 2 by 2 in rows of 3 or 4.

I am intrigued by their set up- wandering kindred spirits that we are. The relationship with their truck does not seem to mirror their American counterparts- who have decked out cabs, complete with sleeping quarters and kitchen sinks. Malian drivers sleep outside. Their trucks become oversized guard animals, protecting them and providing shelter. Often, they can be seen underneath the long back, stretched out on a colorful plastic mat, the large kind used for everything from prayers to picnics to sleeping under your truck.

Avoiding the mid-day sun

I find their ability to sleep, a meter or so from a busy roadway, unbelievable. I cannot imagine being able to relax enough to fall into slumber while laying out in the open with nothing but a thin sheet covering me, taxis and motorcycles rumbling by every minute. There is a deluxe camping model- it looks like a tall, rectangular tent. It's usually made from a heavy brown canvas and looks just long enough to house a narrow cot inside. A private outdoor bunk. The material appears thick enough to buffer some roadway noise, but surely it is a trade-off in heat factor.

During some- most for me- early mornings, when I was still wearing a sweater (I even recall wishing for a hat one morning, a nice fuzzy winter hat) I remember thinking how cold they must be, sleeping outside. During those times, all you can see is a person-shaped blanket. The deluxe model provides some luxury on those chilly mornings.

In heat of mid-day, you can also find drivers napping under their truck or stealing a bit of shade. Sometimes they have the low seated slanted chairs common around West Africa. Occasionally they are stretched out in a black rope hammock swaying in the breeze. And always, there is the plastic mat option. 

Friends gather and play cards, drink tea or just watch the commotion of people selling, unloading, and waiting. Ordinary activities of daily life. It seems like a great place to people watch, a secret cave from which to peer out at the unsuspecting masses. A little spot of your own amidst the busy cramped bustling of the day.

Trucks everywhere

things people say

It's hard to write about Bamako. It's hard to write anything new. It's hard to write anything real. There is a definite sense of the cliche. A definite sense that everything people say is true. I am beginning to understand there is a lot people are not saying and the interesting parts must lie somewhere in between.

There is plenty of cousin talk. Completely true. Any time you meet someone, they want to know your last name. If you don't have a Malian one, they are happy to give you one, most likely they'll try to impose Coulibaly. I stick with my own first name because it works. And it's mine.

Someone told me Toure means 'people who come from far.' There are Toure all across west Africa from Senegal to Cameroon. Everything fits- an international traveler, wandering type.  Cousins of many, which leads to that fine joking Malians are known for.

Malians are really nice. Almost nice to a fault at times. I've begun to suspect there is so much positive commenting on certain things because of this extreme gentleness. It is hard to say something negative about a place where people are so agreeable.

Bazen is beautiful. There is just something majestic about this cloth and seeing people adorned in all the splendor gives a regal air to the mundane. Going to the bank, stopping at the pharmacy- everywhere people are covered in fancy cloth and exude dignity and strength. You can't get away from it.

I took a quick trip to the market yesterday to get some bazen for a few friends- travel in the future!! yay!!- but I was stunned by the prices. I still haven't bought any for myself. I've only gone bazen shopping two other times, both with visiting friends, and every time I find it difficult to wrap my mind around the prices. There is nothing cheap about it.

I asked the vendor what people did for a living- all those finely dressed people I see wandering the streets of Bamako. What the heck do they do that allows them to buy such expensive cloth? I was reminded of the sapeurs of Kin- willing to pay hundreds, even thousands of dollars to achieve a look, all the while unable to pay their rent or buy enough food for everyone in the household.

As much as rituals and traditions have frustrated me in the past, I understand that the role of costume and dress has an impact. We see this play out in the US everyday. The way you are dressed influences how others respond to you and - I suspect- influences the actions of the wearer as well.

Attitude and adornment- hand in hand. Malians are as polite as their clothing is royal.

Malian music is a thing. It's beautiful, haunting, nostalgic, delicate, sophisticated. Malian music has a distinctive tone. While I used to love it when I wasn't here, somehow now that I am in country, I find it harder to listen to. Too much nostalgia, too much lonely desert wandering. The haunting part has overtaken and the beautiful part is merely tinged around the edges.

There are a lot of positives to talk about, but in truth, the feeling in the air is different. It doesn't quite match the obvious militant style of Kin, overrun with guns and tanks and robo-cops on every corner. I hardly see police here, rarely any arms (except on the rare occasion, as this morning, when I accidentally drove by a protest rally. This is the third time I have accidentally ended up in the middle of a rally, marked by the presence of robo-cops- lots of gear, little to do. Often they are gathered in groups trying to find some shade to huddle in. Every time I have seen them, they outnumber the protesters by at least double. They look friendly but bored.)

But there is something in the air I can't quite name or describe. People who have been here "before" and "after" attribute it to the security situation, a situation that has put a damper on all things festive and cultural and creative and touristic.  Because I have no "before" to compare to, I can't say for sure. But it feels like a city the day after its grand parade (worse, it could be this city- cancelling it's parade altogether, and not for the first time.) It feels like a big empty mansion the morning after the week-end party, a little messy, a little destitute but with an air of potential.

An adventure would help- a road trip to the historical, magical cities of old. Security looks dim in all directions- and I am not even privy to the incessant briefings many of the ex-pat, NGO types sit through weekly. I have no inside knowledge, no connections, no way to feel the pulse of the people. A complete outsider this go-round, a controlled swerve until I can get back to where I belong.

Which was....where again?

Controlled swerve

We're on the road again. After 4 years of relying on public transportation, we're back in the driver seat. I spent the first few weeks playing a hybrid game of taxi and personal car- Bamako routes are complicated and sometimes the best way to get somewhere is just to let someone else drive.

I've conquered most of my fears about getting lost and being overtaken by motorcycles and have been, mostly happily, zooming around town. Normally, this would lead to a plethora of road stories- previously a favorite genre of mine. I don't have any. Or rather, I don't have one.

There are two horses pulling an overloaded cart straight down the middle of the road, trying to make a left hand turn.  The cart driver and horses take on a technicolor glow as the background scene- an 18 wheeler truck, yellow Mercedes taxi and multiple blue Xingda motorcarts- fades into a blurred collage of shape and color.  The sky turns a dark gray, threatening a rain storm any minute. I imagine an oil painting on oversize canvas.

There is really nothing unique in this scene. A drive to anywhere, on any given day, is likely to result in a similar scene.  Bamako streets are a kaleidoscope of contrasting images: old donkey driven carts stacked impossibly high with grass or manure or garbage, and bold new machinery painted in bright primary colors. Crisp bazen robes covering ladies dripping with golden jewelry and dusty street kids in torn clothing carrying empty tin cans. 

It all fits together, in a somewhat precarious manner. Cows munch grass and lounge on the shoulder, one with a hoof carelessly reaching into the roadway. It requires a bit of a swerve to miss, but a controlled swerve because there might be a moto on the left, trying to pass recklessly in the median and he- or she- might need to swerve a bit, a controlled swerve, to get out of the way of another big truck coming down the opposite side of the roadway, or a taxi who is swerving- just a bit, a controlled swerve- to get around a donkey cart meandering on the shoulder- the one across from the cow whose foot is in the road.

We are dancing on this road, all this controlled swerving and weaving in and out, the oversize trucks creating blind spots and the undersize motorcycles fitting into them. It's a choreography, not of precision, but of rhythm and tandem motion.

It's not just the movement- but the color. Bazen and wax prints are everywhere- fancily dressed women flying past on motorcycles, high colorful head wraps, long flowing robes of men, that blue- beautiful deep brilliant Tuareg blue of turbans protecting faces from the dust.

Everywhere there is a sight to see. There is nothing that can't or won't be carried on a motorcycle. A freshly cut cow's head, a living sheep cradled around someone's middle, tires circling the driver, children hanging on the front, the back, the middle, sometimes even driving.  While I have seen things tied to motorcycles, like small bikes and packages, the most alarming is the driver who is also holding something- a large bowl tied with a cloth (someone's dinner,)  a few chickens, a wooden window frame. It doesn't matter what he's holding (although I think it matters when it comes to live animals, a sudden jerk...) it's the fact that he's driving with one hand. Nothing free to grab the other handle. All of his swerving must be extra controlled. He needs to maintain super balance.

Aside from the traffic of transportation, there are the pedestrians to watch out for. Surely a group of women or children- those young boys with their restaurant sized empty tomato paste cans, the Quranic school boys who are supposed to be learning the praises of Allah but are instead sent off to beg for change in the sun, the rain, the cover of day and night- any of those groups will be on the side of the road, raising their hand in a misplaced, schoolroom gesture, trying to gain permission to cross the street.

People laugh as they cross the street. I've been observing them. Nearly everyone does it. Whether they are guided or goaded, whether they have someone holding their hand and trying to stop traffic for them or whether they are making a mad dash, they arrive on the other side laughing and shaking their heads.

It is the fear of risking your life, I realized. It's that laugh that comes from carnival rides and other trauma induced situations- in the last moments, we realize the intense severity of our actions- the consequences of a decision gone wrong, one bad calculation, and the only response is laughter. What madmen we must be and yet, what choice is there? A road must be crossed. 

Those are the Bamako streets we are navigating these days, not so different from streets in rural, developing cities across the world. India, I am told, has the most unimaginably crowded streets anywhere. I think often of the rules of the road- especially for motorcycles- in the US. I cannot imagine the lines of traffic and the hours we would pass stalled on unmoving roadways if every motorcycle were to remain on the pavement only, in one lane only, one motorcycle behind another, taking up the same space as a car. It could never work.

And so I am left to point out all the things you cannot do in the US. Mohamed is studying for his learner's permit and it is a great chance to quiz him on all the differences in driving situations.

There is nothing I can do about the directions, though. While difficult in any country, directions are especially challenging here. I have had some people come right out and tell me, "No, I can't give you directions." (But you are there, right? Somehow, you arrived there? And you can't explain that?) No, no they cannot.

Lots of people mention GPS. Full disclosure, I am a little behind the times in this area. When I was in the US, my aunt was crazy about using this- a wonderful little tool that told her to "turn right here" and other helpful advice. I don't have this feature.

My girl is obsessed with maps these days- the old fashioned, hold in your hand kind, and I am happy to support this dying skill. I am all about google maps and looking things up. I don't mind staring at the big picture and trying to make visual connections between where I am and where I want to go (and where I am likely to make a wrong turn and get lost.)

old school

where we are & where we want to go- so easy

Except when I type in a destination, I see only a blue line. It turns occasionally, left or right, but there is no way for me to determine where that turn happens- in real life. Which road do I take? Clicking on the details option is even less illuminating. Google doesn't know everything.

Navigating the streets of Bamako is frustrating. Only the very large highways are named, along with an occasional main road. I know the names of 4 roads here. Otherwise, there is nothing. Landmarks are surprisingly hard to come by. The side roads all seemed to be lined by the same collection of cement block houses and tin roofs.

My neighbor used to always ask me if I was good with north and south. No, I don't feel especially skilled with an internal compass. I am not even really sure how that helps. But I do tend to have a good sense of direction, though in my visual world, I think of things as up and down or left and right. And all roads seem to lead in a circle here, spitting me back out in the direction of home eventually. It makes note-taking a creative affair.

My directions for getting to the Parc National include phrases like, "turn when you see the mountain" which resulted in a little debate between Nabih and I about when, exactly, we saw the mountain and which turn we should take. There are indications to "turn at the green fruit and vegetable stand" or "turn left at the mosquito tents" and " head straight down voodoo head road," which is possibly an insensitive way to describe the road but honestly, it's the one that sticks. This is the road that has a huge table piled high with monkey skulls. I cannot imagine where the big demand for monkey heads is coming from, (soup?) and so my Western mind stubbornly reverts to cliches (though, cliches are not entirely without their merit. They were born for a reason.)

I also note architecture- "pass the Malitel and the beautiful bank" - a stunning tribute to traditional design, although this article suggests a sinister component. I am choosing to let the visual impressiveness win out over the back story. (Maybe-- I am sure I have ruined the whole effect now and all future trips past the "beautiful bank" are going to be marred by the fact that it is the headquarters of the controversial franc cfa..... another disquieting example of how components of present beauty mingle with the horrors of colonial history in everyday African scenery.)

This wikipedia article  about the building mentions several bridges by name and a few roadways. The problem is no one actually calls them that. So is Martyrs Bridge the first or second bridge? I only know it is not the third bridge because that one is by my house. The other bridges are downtown, locally known as the First and Second- the order in which they were built I presume. I also remember looking on a map and someone pointing out the first bridge is actually located between the second and third (a quirky reference to CDG?)

I've been suspecting that driving around Bamako is a bit like a metaphor for living here. The best places are generally hidden and unannounced- impossible to find on any map, no sign on the door- networking is the only way to arrive. You've got to know someone....

And all of these controlled swerves- little detours that don't bring you too far out of your way, but just far enough for something interesting to happen- potentially. Or not. I'm still waiting for the Bamako magic to hit me, and getting ever more suspicious that it might just pass me by this time.

One Brave Cow

I saw him dash across the street and run off down a dirt road. He was large and brown with impressive horns. He was not the black and white docile cow roaming green pastures in idyllic oil paintings. Rather, he was massive and fierce, a cow on a mission.

Seconds later, I saw a man in flowing robes, his head wrapped in cloth, running after the steer. His arm was raised, brandishing a whip, and he dodged motorcycles and sotramas in an effort to make gains on his escaping prize.

Minutes after that spectacle, I passed an overturned motorcycle, it's rider attempting to collect his pile of fallen goods and return his machine to its upright position. I suspected the cow's mad dash for freedom had played a role here.

Bamako streets are filled with rebel cows. Eid al Fitr, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan, is upon us. It's something of a cow apocalypse.  To prepare for the 2-3 days of feasting after the month long fast, beef is being chopped, piled and packed onto motorcycles. Roadsides are lined with cardboard or plastic sheeting and fresh beef stacked into heaps.

The slaughter of cows takes place anywhere, everywhere and the bodies are laid out, necks sliced open, blood gurgling and spurting onto the ground. Legs twitch and their massive chests still heave with final breaths. Men are cleaning, cutting, and washing interior organs and separating everything into ragged raw piles of cow parts.

It goes on all day and into the night. Early evening I stop by an ATM and witness two men struggling to tie a cow into the back of a motor-cart, the blue Xingda tricycle seen all over the streets of Bamako. On this day, too many of them are filled with tied up cows, kidnapped and carted off to death. It's no wonder they're revolting.

Further down the road, I see two men trying to control a cow who is giving his best effort to break free. They've tied ropes around his legs and neck and are trying to manipulate his movements marionette style. A third man comes up along the side and the cow turns on him, horns slashing through air. The man jumps back- into the roadway- and the two rope holders pull tighter. The cow is subdued and traffic winds around the trio.

Later that evening, I share the escaping cow story with my Dutch neighbor. We are poolside at a quiet hotel on the Niger River. In turn, she tells me about the legendary cows of her village in the Netherlands. Occasionally during the time of slaughter, cows escape there as well. And one cow in particular got a pretty good lead on his farmer. Another farmer, a retired farmer who had a long history with the cow and knew him well, was called in. The retired farmer managed to catch up with the cow and use their special past relationship to calm him down and convince him to return.

Of course, the cow was not slaughtered after that and was awarded special cow status. A kind of mythical, legendary king cow hero who'd managed to escape the certainty of slaughter and go on to live long and comfortably into cow old age. One brave cow who has apparently been inspiring cows world-wide to strive for their freedom, even if it means dashing across crowded city streets and overturning motorcycles.